


Supremus

by kylostahp (hawkeward)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Come Eating, Dubious Consent, Except Snoke Is Kylo, Kyluxhardkinks Prompt Fill, Look I Didn't Come Up With This Prompt Okay, M/M, Masturbation, Snoke Was Kylo Ren All Along?, So This Is Snoke/Hux, Submissive Hux, This Is Weird And I'd Like To Apologize, Time travel fuckery, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeward/pseuds/kylostahp
Summary: It's a second chance, or its a punishment. Either way, it offers an opportunity he didn't expect.





	Supremus

**Author's Note:**

> From a [prompt](http://kyluxhardkinks.tumblr.com/post/149630385424) on the kyluxhardkinks tumblr suggesting the intriguing premise of Snoke-as-Kylo (plus Hux), which I proceeded to gum up with my own weirdness about the Force.

Kylo Ren goes to Malachor to die.

He had died many times before, centimeter by centimeter. The boy he was died when Kylo Ren was first born, slick to his elbows with blood in an academy turned to a charnel house. He died on a slender bridge, deep in the bowels of a machine made to devour light and spit bloody hatred. He died alone in the snow, cleaved open by the blade-sharp brilliance of a scavenger girl.

She was stronger. She would, he knew, always _be_ stronger—would always seek him out and cut him open and shine her merciless light into all his dark spaces. She would kill him again and again, and each time he would die like a man caught up in a sandstorm, blind and screaming, stripped bare and scourged until there was no raw, shuddering place in him left untouched.

The Force had chosen its champion well.

He had died many times before, but it was _then_ that he felt fear, deep in the core of his being. He abandoned his training and his master, the First Order and the hunt for Skywalker, Kylo Ren in his entirety, and fled to the crucible of Malachor.

The Force on Malachor twists like a moebius strip—there is no light or dark there, but a void of gray that gnaws at Jedi and Sith alike, swallowing all pretense and philosophy. He could lose himself in its coiling labyrinth, safe from both the shadow of Snoke’s beckoning hand and the cold-star blaze of the girl.

He could rest, there. Let Malachor slowly strip his burdens away until there is nothing left of him. It is not an unappealing notion.

So he goes to Malachor to die. The galaxy fades away behind him, and he thinks that perhaps he can finally see peace.

... But _peace_ has never been the will of the Force.

He awakens to what was once history: an empire, a rebellion—the old fairytale of the princess, the pirate, and the farmboy-knight. A broken man shrouded in darkness and an untested child, risen from sand and dust, who cracks the monster open and lets in the light.

His body has deteriorated, hairless skin leeched corpse-pale and atrophied limbs stretched like putty. The wounds the scavenger girl gave him have sunk into his flesh, left scars deep and twisted as those of Malachor itself. He looks at his hands, turned wizened and spidery, and knows what role he is intended to play.

It is not the second chance he would have chosen, but the Force has a sense of humor. Or perhaps it’s Malachor that wants him to correct his failure, bring forth a champion who can counter the girl’s appearance on the field of play for a game that stretches back millennia.

He does not think of himself as _Snoke_ , even as he bends the thoughts of a far-away boy, teasing him away from the family that will never love him and toward his destiny. He wonders, as he stokes the nightmare shudders of that small mind, if there truly ever _was_ a Snoke—or if this is just one more cycle in an eternity of forging, honing, and breaking himself open that has always been his fate.

In his own mind, he remains _Ben_ , as some part of him always did. It’s an irony, perhaps, that his namesake was also an exile, called to raise the next generation of pawns for the Force’s great, unceasing war.

He kills the boy and brings forth Kylo Ren from the remains, regardless.

The First Order, still desperately seeking their own Palpatine, comes willingly to his hand. They present him with their finest, most ambitious young officer, and Ben finds himself startled by the memory of General Hux. Malachor had swallowed the man from his mind, down to the last immaculate copper hair.

In his first audience, Hux offers him the deference of a military bow, and Ben’s eyes snag unexpectedly on the way his starched collar shifts slightly to expose his pale nape. He remembers, suddenly, how in another life he had collected the brief flashes of skin framed in the teasing sliver between cuff and glove, hoarded them like pearls. He remembers _wanting_.

Malachor should have swallowed that, as well.

Instead, Malachor granted him patience, and slowed the storm that once raged inside him. He can still feel it, but distantly—like the difference between watching the turn of a hurricane from orbit and huddling on the ground as rain and wind tear you apart.

He finds, watching the way Hux looks appraisingly at his masked apprentice, that there was a great deal he could not see from within that storm. Hux’s eyes rake blatantly over broad shoulders and toned arms in a way that leaves no doubt... Ben was not the only one who _wanted_ , back in that other life.

It’s almost funny, to think they both could have had what they desired, if only either of them had reached out to seize it. He would have been maddened over such a thing, once—would have screamed and raged against Hux and the galaxy and the Force and himself.

Now, he calls the general to a private briefing. He looks down from where he knows his hologram towers over Hux in the cavernous comm room, takes in his proud face and stiff bearing.

“Your fascination with Kylo Ren has not gone unnoticed, General,” he says, without preamble.

Hux’s expression slips almost imperceptibly, but Ben is watching for it, just as he is watching for the slight shift of the general’s posture to defensiveness where a lesser man might even have cringed.

“Supreme Leader, I don’t—,” Hux begins, but Ben raises a hand and he falls silent.

“Strip,” he commands.

Hux hesitates, eyes darting around the room. He wets his lips as if preparing to speak again.

“ _General,”_ Ben barks out before he can begin, voice resonant through the void of the massive chamber, echoing off the arched ceiling. A flicker of emotion—fear, annoyance, excitement?—crosses Hux’s face. “I gave you an _order_. I expect obedience, not excuses. Or shall I return to your high command and inform them of your insubordination?”

Color rises in Hux’s face, but he reaches for his belt, divesting himself of uniform, boots, and underclothes with brutal efficiency. His chin remains stubbornly lifted even as his cheeks and neck redden in shame, hands twitching against pale thighs with the urge to cover his flaccid cock.

“On your _knees_ , General Hux.”

Hux sinks slowly to his knees on the polished black surface of the comm dais. Ben’s heart is suddenly pounding, blood pulsing loud and harsh through his body. It has been decades since he touched himself, since his body felt _anything_ in the vein of desire or pleasure—just the sight of Hux nude is almost overwhelming.

“Two fingers, in your mouth. Slick them up and open yourself.”

Hux’s pale eyes widen, then his gaze drops to the floor. His cheeks are flaming, the flush spread down over his chest to where his nipples have peaked in the room’s chill. His face is a mask of resigned humiliation, but Ben doesn’t miss the way his cock twitches as he slowly slides two fingers between his lips. His downcast eyes flutter shut as he works the fingers in his mouth, thrusting gently and swirling his tongue over them. His other hand unconsciously moves between his legs as if to palm his stirring cock, but he recovers himself and returns it to his thigh with an upward glance—apologetic, entreating.

“You may touch yourself, General,” Ben says indulgently. A small sound escapes Hux as his hand moves back, teasing his cock to full hardness with rough pulls.

Hux seems to have decided that his fingers are sufficiently moistened, because he withdraws them from his mouth and bends forward to elevate his ass, bracing his forearm against the floor as he reaches back. Ben can’t decide whether to watch Hux’s middle finger dipping between his cheeks to trace the pale pucker of his hole, or the way his shoulders tremble as his head drops to rest on his arm.

He wants to touch, taste, _take,_ but instead he watches as Hux works in the second finger, teasing slightly at his own rim as he slides it inside. His hands grip the arms of his seat, elongated fingers digging into the stone hard enough he almost believes it will crack.

“Another,” he says, keeping his voice disinterested. “Let me see that pretty hole stretch.”

Hux adds the third finger without hesitation, his spit-slick hole resisting only slightly. Ben almost moans at the sight.

“You want him to take you like that,” he says instead, letting an edge of contempt bleed into his voice. “Split you open on his cock and pound you like a cheap Outer Rim whore.”

Hux’s groan is muffled in the crook of his arm, fingers still working steadily in and out. His cock bobs heavy between his legs, precome dripping from it to the floor in a glittering, cobweb-thin line.

“He would do it, you know. Anything you wanted. Fill you up with his fingers, his cock, his tongue. Pull your hair while he fucks your face. Hold you down for hours while you writhe under him, begging to come. All you would have to do is ask.”

Ben watches Hux’s face, his glazed eyes and swollen, reddened lips. His hand has moved to fist his cock, leaving his cheek is pressed to the floor, mouth slack around soft, whimpering moans.

He feels his face twist into a snarl. “But you won’t. _I forbid it.”_

Hux moans again, high and keening. The hand on his cock moves faster, fingers plunging in and out, needy and relentless.

“I forbid it,” Ben repeats, voice gentling. He captures Hux’s unfocused gaze with his own, and smiles down at him fondly. “Because you are _mine.”_

Hux’s whole body stutters at that, and his cry as he comes is sharp and plaintive, like that of some small creature caught in a snare. His cock pulses thickly, striping long strings of white over the black surface beneath him as he strokes himself dry. He slumps to the floor, fingers sliding roughly from his reddened hole, curling on his side as he draws harsh, gasping breaths that wrack his body with shudders.

Heat is puddled in Ben’s belly, his cock hard as mandalorian iron. It has been decades since he touched himself, since his body felt _anything_ in the vein of desire or pleasure. He wants to savor it forever, or for as long as Malachor will allow him. He watches Hux returning shakily to his hands and knees, chest still heaving as he looks up.

Ben looks him over for a long moment, relishing the wrecked debauchery of the man he never before saw in any state but pristine. “Clean up your mess,” he orders, finally. He raises a hand when Hux reaches for the thin undershirt from the pile of his discarded clothing. “Ah—no need to sully your uniform.”

Hux glances up at him again, momentarily confused—then shivers as understanding dawns, spent cock twitching against his thigh. He sets his palms on the floor and bends down, laving up his come with long swipes of his tongue and leaving glistening wetness in its wake. He sits back on his heels when he’s finished, head bowed, strands of hair falling to obscure his face.

Ben is seized with the sudden urge to reach out across light-years of distance and stroke that hair back into place, to lavish Hux with praise and caresses like a favored pet. “Excellent work, General,” he says, instead. “But be careful that your _personal_ interests not interfere with working with Kylo Ren.”

He terminates the connection before Hux can reply, slumping in his seat as he slides a hand into his robe to grip his cock. He strokes hard and fast, the image of Hux’s fire-gold head bent in supplication burning bright in his mind. He imagines having the general naked and kneeling before him whenever he pleases, waiting on his command—

The thought of hearing _yes, master_ on Hux’s lips sends him over the edge, coming hot and sticky into his hand.

He sits in the empty room for long minutes, far past the time it takes for his breathing to even and his come to grow cool and sticky. He keys the comm again. “Inform Kylo Ren that I wish to speak with him. We must discuss the necessity of resisting the temptations of the flesh, and the trials he may face in that area.”

He will give Malachor its champion, but Hux will be _his_ , alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Come to [tumblr](http://kylostahp.tumblr.com/) for more yelling about Kylo as a deicidal Force-antitheist rebel.


End file.
